


Six

by junes_discotheque



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Caning, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, F/M, Femdom, not particularly ethical sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annalise punishes Wes after picking him up from the station. Spoilers through 1x03, though possible characterization spoilers beyond that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six

The polished wood of Annalise's desk is smooth and cool under Wes's heated palms, and the beveled edge digs sharply into his hips. He buries his face in his arms, desperate to give nothing away, even as he trembles at the sound of her heels pacing away from and back towards him.

His ass is already warm from her palm, his back tingling from her sharp nails, and he feels wet, too, like she may have drawn blood. He pictures himself sitting with his classmates, wearing Annalise's marks under his shirt, and a tiny bead of precome slides down his cock.

A rough hand grabs him and thumbs over the head of his dick. “None of that,” Annalise hisses in his ear. “You don't get to come unless you can come from the pain.” Wes whimpers out a  _yes, ma'am,_ so quiet he's pretty sure Annalise didn't even hear him, and he hasn't used honorifics before (mostly because the only other time they did this, Annalise had him on his knees kissing the toes of her pumps so fast he barely knew what was going on, and since then, he's pretty much just called her  _terrifying_ in his head) but it slips out anyway.

“Six,” she says, and Wes winces—the cane she rubs up and down his ass is not light, and it's not thin, and he has her class tomorrow, and Wes is starting to realize that he may have misled her after the shoe-kissing incident, because fooling around with his high school girlfriend and pervertables they stole from her dad's work shed has not even remotely prepared him for this.

But he wants it.

He wants it the way he wants Rebecca, the way he wants to see the nasty things the good girl wrapped in an angry, maybe-murderous drug dealing bartender can do, the way he's wanted Annalise since the first day of class and the realization that his untested humiliation kink wasn't as theoretical as he believed.

(Even after he realized she wasn't actually dominant, just sadistic and manipulative without much consideration for consent, he still wanted her—wanted her more, even, wanted to let her drag him down and destroy him, but right now he'll settle for this. He's never taken this much. He's not sure if he can.)

The first stroke isn't bad for the first second—which is normal—but then it isn't bad for another second, and  _another,_ and Wes starts to think it's kind of weird until the pain hits him full force and he screams, trembling against the desk, gasping and banging his fist against the wood.

“Count,” Annalise says.

“One, ma'am,” Wes chokes out. It forces him to breathe, and settle, and it still hurts like fuck but it stings now, rather than burns, and he can take the next.

She taps it against his ass, just below the first stroke, and he leans into it—it's nice, this is what he likes, the light tapping and not—

“ _Fuck,”_ Wes groans. The second stroke isn't as bad as the first but it still hurts, and he raises himself up on his toes, squirms, tries to work the heat out. There's no way he can take six. No fucking way.

“ _Wesley._ ”

“Two, ma'am.”

The third and fourth strokes come together, and as he tries to stop screaming, he realizes Annalise knows he can't take any more. She has to remind him of the count because he's forgotten his numbers. He can't take it, and she knows he can't take it, and she doesn't care. Wes didn't mislead her at all, before, when he told her about his girlfriend and how they used to play, and how she only hit him lightly but he preferred to curl up at her feet and follow her orders.

“Two more,” Annalise says.

No, Wes didn't mislead her.

Annalise just doesn't care what he can take, and despite the pain—despite Wes being almost positive he's not really a masochist—his cock is still hard, and if he could just get her to touch him, he's pretty sure he'd come in an instant.

The fifth stroke falls.

~ * ~

Annalise doesn't say a word as Wes picks up his clothes, pulls his boxers on over his soft cock, the fabric sticking to his skin thanks to the come splattered on his stomach and down his legs. She sits down at her desk and opens a file and writes, and doesn't look up, and when Wes says goodbye she simply tells him she expects to see him in her class tomorrow.

Then he slings his bag over his shoulder, winces and pitches forward slightly as it hits his ass, and leaves.

He walks home, leaving his bike leaning against Annalise's house. It's a good forty minute walk by foot, and each step is agony, and it's getting cold out, but the air feels nice on his sweat-sticky skin, and the crisp sharpness fills his lungs sweetly.

~ * ~

Wes sits perfectly still all the way through Annalise's class, takes perfect notes, and answers evenly and perfectly when he is called on.

When she hands him the trophy, the swell of victory he feels has nothing at all to do with Rebecca.


End file.
